Grey
by Fitch
Summary: FF8 something or other.


**Grey**

Sometimes he wondered where he went wrong.

Not often, though. Squall Leonheart was never particularly into self-loathing. It doesn't accomplish anything, anyway, and as far as he's concerned, it wastes precious time. He could have been depressed, he supposed, and his blue-grey eyes always seemed to show a hint of it, consciously or not, but he really didn't feel that way. He figured that was a good sign. Depression was weakness.

Oh, he wasn't arrogant enough to believe that he was infallible or that he had somehow shielded himself from all the hurt and all the pain that the world constantly seemed to throw at you. He just chose to play an intricate game of pretend: pretend that everything around him was dust, pretend that if he closed his eyes and released a silent breath, life would swirl around him and fade into the wind like a whisper. It seemed to work, usually. He fooled just about everyone.

Squall shook his head in a slightly irritated manner and leaned over his darkened table to grab the letter out of the young man's hands. He chanced a look at him, realizing with some curiousity that he had never seen this particular messenger before. The intricate workings of Garden's information circuit weren't foreign to him, and he always made note to memorize the face and name of anyone he met who belonged to it. This particular face seemed nearly as young as he, and unusually nervous for a intelligence runner. His eyes flitted about as if he feared he would disappear at any moment. Squall wondered what it was he was afraid of. He had never found Garden's cafeteria particularly daunting, even in the flickering light of the dull lamps that illuminated the empty mess hall at night. He guessed it was the giant ferns used as decoration; he couldn't imagine being in any sort of danger in a room with so many potted plants.

The fidgeting young man across from him seemed to have found his tongue. "It's Level C," he half-whispered, half-hissed. "Straight from the Headmaster himself."

Squall nodded absently and moved his fingers slowly over the raised seal of Balamb Garden on the coarse paper of the envelope. "What's your name?"

The man's alarmed look returned and he mumbled something that resembed "Komatsu". He wondered why he was being asked. Privates in the intelligence office were generally given about the same respect as the janitors that fished discarded shoes out of the reflecting pools in the main hall. The truth was that most of the dutied men and women in the intelligence arena were SeeD dropouts. The program had a remarkably low 1 in 13 graduating ratio, so there was always a new batch of unfortunate 'incompletes' to fill any vacancies in many of Garden's staffed offices. 

His silent question was never answered, but his eyes widened noticably when he realized that Squall was staring at him with detached interest, memorizing the lines of his face. The moment only lasted a brief few seconds before Squall sat back in his seat and ripped the end off the envelope. He removed the glossy paper inside and began reading.

Komatsu looked mortified. "You... you aren't supposed to open that here!" His frail hands dug into his scalp in complete horror, tugging on his already thinning hair.

Squall didn't seem to hear him, but his eyes darkened imperceptibly as he read the paper's contents. Leaning over the table again, he plucked a cheap ball-point pen from the front chest pocket of Komatsu's shirt. Sitting back, he clicked the end with his thumb and began filling out what looked like some sort of form.

The shock on Komatsu's face from having his pen snatched without so much as a word gradually faded into an intense curiousity. He craned his unusually long neck forward, sitting up as best as he could to get a glimpse of whatever it was Squall was writing. After trying several angles with little success he slumped down in his seat in frustration; Squall's large gloved hands were covering the top of the document, and the bottom was obscured by both his poor vision and the dim lighting in the quiet hall. He sighed to himself and stared at his silverware.

After a few minutes, Squall clicked the end of the pen once more and leaned over to plunk it down in Komatsu's pocket. He smirked as he refolded the paper and slipped it inside the envelope it had came in. He folded the corner down in a small attempt to keep the document from sliding out. When he was done, he set it on the table in front of him and pushed it slowly in Komatsu's direction. When the young man reached for it, Squall abrubtly flicked his hand out and grabbed his wrist in a strangely hypnotic show of speed. Komatsu hadn't even seen his arm move, but was acutely aware of the much stronger man's iron grip on his now violently trembling wrist. His frightened eyes shot up to Squall's looking for an explanation.

"If you look at this paper, even just a glance, I will hunt you down to hell and back. You will not take a step, make a sound, or feel the breath escape your lungs without me being there. I will burn myself into your flesh and you will live to regret your mistake for the rest of eternity. Do you understand me?"

Komatsu nodded furiously as the color drained away from his face. He felt his chest compound upon itself and he was sure that he would erupt into fear-induced seizure at any moment. His lips quirked grotesquely when he noticed Squall release his wrist and sit back with a closed-mouth smile.

"Give my regards to the Headmaster, Komatsu," Squall instructed lightly as he reached across the table to shake the young man's hand. It took Komatsu a minute to realize what he was doing before he quickly mimicked the motion and clasped Squall's in a firm handshake. Komatsu smiled despite himself.

After a brief moment, Squall swung his long legs out from beneath the table and allowed a crisp salute before he turned and stalked from the room, the dull thud of his military boots echoing in the empty room. Komatsu let out a shaky breath when he disappeared out the main door. Squall Leonhart had a reputation for both his unprecedented martial skill and his ability to shut down any attempted conversation. Frankly, the encounter went far better than he expected. 

He scooped the envelope into his thin arms and quickly made his way to the elevators.

  
*************************

  
Squall was already awake when he heard the overly pleasant chiming of his alarm. He stood over the device and paused for a minute to turn the sound off before he continued buttoning the strict looking twill shirt of his cadet uniform. The embroidered bars on the breast pocket indicated his status as a high ranking SeeD candidate. The dark blue garment was pulled taught over his angular shoulders, bordering on tightness to the point where one could nearly see the lines of his chest beneath the rough fabric. It was, in fact, slightly uncomfortable, which was exactly how Squall Leonhart wanted it. Dress uniforms were supposed to be tight in the chest and loose in the pants. Regulations were regulations.

He finished with the last polished, brass button and grabbed his gunblade out of its large, elegant black case and drew his fingers along the edge of the blade. It was a ritual he had developed each time he removed the weapon. It was strange the things people find peace in.

He quickly sheathed it and sat on his dull grey desk chair. Reaching underneath, he grabbed a pair of military issue black boots and quickly laced them on his feet. Satisfied, he stood up and left his dorm.

Walking down the extensive halls of Garden was imposing to some. The exotic regalia that hung from the walls painted a picture of high high society and wealth, but anyone who ventured inside knew the building was not the palace of a powerful dignitary, but a training grounds of what was quite possibly the most elite military force in the world. For all the money in the empire of Galbadia and all the technology in the city-state of Esthar, this small, neutral mercenary organization had all of their soldiers whipped. In sheer numbers, however, either of the aforementioned countries had the strength to overpower the Gardens. Thus their neutrality was both practical _**and**_ wise.

Squall reached his classroom with only a few ticks on the clock before the beginning of the session. He was never late, but he was never early, either. It was a strange sort of strictness that went well with his seemingly indifferent attitude. 

The instructor looked up in anticipation and pushed her round-rimmed glasses higher on her nose as Squall made his way silently to the back of the classroom, his eyes on the floor in front of him. She smiled warmly in his direction before clearing her throat and standing up to begin her lesson. 

About twenty minutes into a slightly boring dissertation on tactical administration, the electronic door whirred open and admitted a short underclassman runner who immediately shot a stiff salute to the head of classroom. "Instructor Trepe?" 

The blonde woman squinted in frustration at having her lesson interrupted, but managed a friendly nod of affirmation. 

"The Headmaster has requested an audience with one of your students."

This bit of information caused a low murmur to begin building among the rows of desk-consoles. Students looked left and right, wondering who the lucky (or terribly _unlucky_, as the case might be) cadet was. Meeting with the headmaster was a rare honor indeed.

Instructor Trepe tilted her head in surprise before nodding curtly. "Which student?"

"Squall Leonhart, Instructor," the runner barked back, injecting a bit of self-importance into his words.

All eyes turned to the back of the room to see the young man in question staring at the ground near his feet detachedly. He moved his fingers to the keypad in front of him and logged off his console before standing up and neatly placing his chair back in its original position. The stares continued unabated as he made his way to the front of the classroom and out the door with the runner in tow.

The instructor watched with her small, pink mouth slightly agape before leaning out the doorway and following the pair down the polished hallway with her eyes. She opened her lips slightly, as if she were going to say something, but instead let out a deep, sighing breath, blowing her long bangs away from her forehead. Shaking her head, she turned back to the class and picked up where she had left off in her discussion.

  
*************************** 

  
"What is _this_?!"

Headmaster Cid sweeped a stamped document from a pile on his hardwood desk and held it up in disdain. He seemed genuinely irritated.

Squall glanced at the Headmaster in an attempt to gauge his mood. His reddish-brown hair, greying at the temples, was rumpled and his shoulders seemed to sag under his weight just a little more than usual. He was definitely getting out of shape. Squall straightened his shoulders, gripping his wrist behind his back tightly as he stood in the typical stance of someone being called upon in a military institution.

"It's an application form to be admitted into the officer's program, sir," he remarked dully. 

Cid nodded tritely, mumbling to himself as he bent over and rummaged through his desk drawer to retrieve his glasses. He placed them on the bridge of his nose and sat down in his high-backed leather chair. He cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully in Squall's direction before speaking. 

"Yes, yes it is an application form for officer's training. It's _your_ application form, but I'm guessing you already knew that." The Headmaster looked pointedly at Squall, his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose with the motion. Using a hefty finger, he pushed them back up before holding the paper in front of him and beginning to read. "Applicant's Full Name: Skwuall Leeonhurt. Student Identification Number: 555-555-5555..." He skimmed his finger down the page, sighing to himself. "Skills and Qualifications: I enjoy sharp things." He immediately pulled his glasses off and rubbed his temples in an exaggerated manner, expressing his irritation. "Squall, your IQ is well into the 140s. Both of us are well aware that you are exceptionally intelligent and more than capable of entering the Officer's Program. Why are you.... _laughing_ at the opportunity we're trying to give you?"

"Maybe I don't think of it as an opportunity, sir."

"Mr. Leonhart, we honor only a select few with this gift. And it _**is**_ a gift. Being a leader of men is part of your destiny, Squall. Whether or not you will ever admit it, you are not, and never will be, _average_. Accepting yourself for what you are, a gifted tactician and an unparalleled soldier, is the first step towards becoming the man that I know you can be!" Cid declared, standing up and beginning to pace. "I have seen you fight, Squall. You have something that no one else does. You have a gift. You anticipate and you capitalize on the mistakes of others. And your skill lies in your... unpredictability." 

He paused in his pacing and smiled warmly, like a father to his son. "I've _seen_ you in the library past curfew, Squall. I know that you study sword-styles and incorporate them into your own repartee. It is an incredible thing, this ability you have to absorb and modify techniques until they become your own. Extraordinary, really. It's like art in motion when you fight. The gunblade... ah, the gunblade," he murmured, lost in a moments reverie. "The gunblade becomes an extension of yourself. I've never seen anything like it. No one has. It is a difficult weapon, perhaps the most difficult of them all, and we have never been able to graduate a SeeD who is skilled in its art. But you... there's such fluidity between you and that blade. A symbiotic relationship the ebbs and flows. I see this when you fight, Squall. I see it in the way you move and the way the gunblade strikes from your hand. It is nothing short of disciplined perfection." He paused, allowing his features to take on a look of sadness and even... guilt? "But you lack something very important. You see Squall, this incredible passion you have on the battlefield seems to leave you the moment you step off it. There is so much beauty in the world, but all you see is the grey."

"Beauty is many things to many people."

"Really? Then what is beautiful to you?"

"Quality."

Cid sighed and shook his head, closing his eyes lightly as he did so. "You have missed so much, Squall."

"No. I stopped missing things a long time ago, Headmaster." Squall shifted his weight and dropped his arms to his side, making to leave. "I'd like to return to class if you don't have any objections, sir?"

Another sigh escaped the Headmaster's lips and he vaguely gestured towards the door. "No, you're free to go..."

Squall nodded and grabbed the ornate, gold doorhandle before pausing and looking back over his shoulder at Cid's defeated posture. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking.

"The cloud of white crystals that escape from your lips when you take a winter breath."

Cid looked up sharply in confusion. "What?"

"Beauty. I think that's beautiful," Squall answered quietly before turning the handle and stepping outside, back into the grey-metal hallways of his world.

  
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**A/N:** Well, that's it. For now, at least. I will probably continue it because I was planning on this only being a prologue to a much longer story, but for now it's on it's own. I wrote it in one night, so it's short, but a little different from the usual. Or so I hope.


End file.
